The Lovely Hypothesis
by CC333
Summary: When Sheldon Cooper was growing up, he believed that he didn't need anyone but his brain. Now as the paths of two guineses cross, will his world change? Will Sheldon be able to access the secret past of the one he harbors these new feelings for? S/OC fic
1. Chapter 1

_**Hey, you party people! I'm back with an all new hit in the BBT section! WOOHOO! Anyway, this idea was floatin' around my dusty brain for quite some time before something went "ding!" and this pooped (popped?) out! What really inspired me to write this was the lack of Sheldon/OC stories. Now, don't get me wrong or anything; there are such stories out there. It's just that the all the OC's are so very alike :P I want mine to be different and have an amazingly shady past . . Here's hoping you like the way I portray Sheldon in this story. I'm trying to make him relate to his true character as much as possible. It's kinda weird to write actually, but amazingly fun!**_

_**Anyway, go ahead and enjoy and don't forget to review :D**_

**_Disclaimer: *curtains open* Don't own BBT *curtains close followed by roaring applause*_**

The Lovely Hypothesis

by CC333

Chapter One

Number 12

Number 13

Number14...

So far, the lower life forms behind me have managed to unsuccessfully launch 14 spitballs at me. All of which have managed to sail over my head or past my shoulder. For football jocks, their aim is off by a miraculous amount. However, I am still not amused.

From what I've gathered, Mr. Braxton's 3rd World History Class is just another period when the majority of my older, dumber classmates play around or attend to their rest needs. My pen is barely racing, my memory storing most of the info I'll need for future reference. A quick glance around the room is enough to ensure that everything was as it should be in the world. The sad excuses of students are failing, the smart, yet inferior to I, nerds and geeks are actually paying attention, and the teacher is in his usual state of intoxication. I set the black ballpoint pen down for a second and rub my writing hand while leaning back into my chair. As I do so, Number 15 flies right by my ear before rolling off my desk and onto the gray tiled floor below. I smirk secretly to myself as one of the apes grunts in frustration. Well, they can keep trying all they want but there's only about a minute and a half of this class to go. My books and supplies are already packed to ensure a quick exodus. Others are lazily packing up as well. Mr. Braxton doesn't seem to take notice, however. Or perhaps he just doesn't care. Trivial things such as this probably go unnoticed all the time when you're drunk. How he gets away with it and is still able to give a remotely legitimate lecture, who knows. He's certainly a clever one, hiding his little alcohol in an old Dr. Pepper aluminum can. His breath and slight slurring, however, sells him away faster than a full grown, healthy hog at the fair.

I cringe at the nature of the inference I just made. Hailing from the South does this sort of thing to you, I suppose.

The clock above the door in this classroom is exactly seven seconds off from my PDA, thus rendering it incorrect. Seeing as it's such a small distortion, I'll let it slide for now, but Mr. Braxton won't be so easily let off the hook as soon as it starts to hinder my schedule.

The ridiculous excuse for human beings behind me are still at their shenanigans by the time the school bell, which is four seconds off, activates and we are released from the clutches of the sour alcohol smell of that particular classroom. The notebook I had been taking notes is neatly, but hastily stashed into my side bag and I'm on my feet in no time. With books clutched tightly to my chest, I'm out of room faster than you can state the formula for finding the volume of a rectangular object.

Ahem, length times width times depth… just in case you hadn't figured it out yet.

"Hey Cooper", the low, predatory growl comes from behind me. My eyes widen and I quicken my speed, feeling like a African plains zebra in the presence of a creeping pride of lions. Oh friggity frack.

My ears detect a loud slam from behind me. My eyes scan quickly for an exit. Any exit. Another slam from behind. The pilomotor reflex snaps at the nerve endings under my skin, the age-old fight or flight response is frantically releasing adrenaline from their glands; I power myself onward, not daring to look back behind me. The bag slung across my shoulder flapped against my mid-thief, rustled by my almost jogging pace.

Just breathe and move, Sheldon. Breath and move. Breath and mo-

"ACK! LET GO OF ME, YOU COMPLETE WASTE OF HYDROGEN AND OXYGEN PARTICLES!"

They touched me. A meaty hand had landed on my shoulder and that was enough to crack me. Forgetting all previously-chanted meditations, my survival skills kick in and I soon become the striped African plains mammal that only had one thing on its mind: Not becoming the oafish lions' little snack.

The enormous gorilla hand tries to yank me backwards, but I manage to only stumble a bit before taking off sprinting. Their heavy footsteps and cursing fill my ears as the pursuit quickens. There's no way I can outrun them, not for long at least. They're so significantly older, larger, and stronger than I. My graceful built wasn't meant for such pettiness. There must be close-by exit that could save my hide, but there seems to be no such thing in sight. My options are limited. If memory serves me right, which it always does, there would be a couple of restrooms in the next hallway.

I turn the next corner quick, almost sliding before picking up what small amount of speed I possessed. Then, pushing open the thick wooden door, I leap inside of the bathroom and close the door hastily but silently. My ear hovers close to the door as the thick footsteps and conversation of "Where is that little punk?" pass by. Turning around and leaning against the door heavily, a sigh escapes my lips as I close my eyes and try to meditate again.

The peace, as usual, doesn't last long.

The sound of a wet, pitiful sob echoes off the gray slab walls of the lavatory. A small teenager has hoisted herself onto the white counter, her back to the dribbling faucets and paper towel dispensers. Her curly hair covers the majority of her face effectively but fails to disguise the tears wobbling over the curve of her cheeks. She doesn't seem to recognize that I have entered the bathroom. For one serious fraction of a second, I had to reach into my sub-conscience and scrutinize on whether or not I had observed the popular gender-indicating sign bolted to the door. There's a good, okay, rather definite chance that I just entered the female bathroom instead of the male's. Rolling my eyes, the free hand that is not supporting my books and is clenched in a fist hits the door behind me.

As is always the case with accident-prone young men such as I, walking into the wrong bathroom never quite settles with you, no matter how many times it happens. With my ever expansive memory, for soome reason, my mind thinks back to when Mother would take me in the bathroom with her and how I never questioned when I'd get to use the "big boy's potty" instead of sharing a stall with her.

Another sob is emitted from the African-American girl on the counter before a different female, this one Caucasian and sporting an excess amount of make-up and revealing clothing, exits one of the four green stalls and stares at me before calling me a "freak" and advancing towards myself and the door. I take a step to the right to get out of her way and end up accidentally leaning against one of the unlocked stall doors. Falling through immediately, my books are released from my grip and splay across the floor as I catch my self just in time to prevent my head from knocking against the porcelain toilet. With horrific realization, I reel back and stare down at the hands which broke my fall, but also came in contact with the seat itself. The bottle of hand sanitizer I carry around is in my closed bag but most definitely won't be enough. Scrambling up off the bathroom floor, I almost fall again making a mad dash for the sinks.

The girl is still there. Her sobs have quieted a bit, though.

Frantically, my hands are wetted and disappear in a soapy cloud. After four minutes of thorough scrubbing, I thank the heavens for not sending any more girls with the need to empty their bladders into the room. I try not to pay too much attention to the now silent girl sitting next to me, her legs still hanging over the sink counter. It's hard, however, to do such a thing with this particular individual, I soon find out. She has a certain…glow. As I shake the last remaining drops of water into the tan sink bowl while simultaneously activating the hand dryer mounted on the wall to my left, my own eyes betray me and steal a glance, directed not directly over, but at her reflection.

Through the mirror the spans the whole wall, I observe that she is still slumped over and emits an aura of melancholia, even with her sobs no longer bouncing off the blue-painted walls. There isn't much I can gather about her face from this angle, of course, but once again, I find my eyes mutinying me as they dance across the plane of her back that is clothed with a beige and green striped blouse that reaches her mid-thigh. The curve of her buttocks presses against the grey stone of the counter. With eye-widening realization at what I was doing, my breath hitches and I spin on my heels to tediously tend to the drying of my (now pleasantly sterilized) hands. With elated thoughts, my whole view begins to change. Perhaps I can escape off the campus and make it home safely without any more confrontations. Then I could get back to my studies on non-Newtonian fluids and their reactions to different levels of dilution, all while lavishing in the wonderful smells of chicken pot pie that I already know Mother will be preparing in the comfy kitchen this eve-

The ecstatic prospects of the evening that are running through my mind are abruptly halted when I unconsciously spin on my heels and look up, only to find golden eyes that shine like prehistoric amber sap, except for the fact that, unlike the syrup that had hardened an interminably long time ago, the color seems to waver and splash, truly bringing to life the overused, almost cliché term usually associated with attractive eyes: "pools".

An old adage says that the eyes are the window to the soul. Well, hers, after only a second and a half, went from excitable portals into a warm universe to ultimate lockdown, becoming more reclusive than wild wolves in high noon. Even though her eyes now look harder and colder than stone she sat upon, they still show signs of intrigue and I can't help but wonder what she is thinking as she stares square into my gun-metal blue eyes. It hits me once again that I am, after all, somewhat an intruder into the meant-to-be private place. Somewhere within my frontal lobe, another note is taken: even at her post atop the counter, I still prove to be taller than her (she even goes as much to incline her head a few degrees) and the youth of her face captures me. With me being (by law) a fifth grader, but by academic standards a graduating high school scholar, it would be inept to say that there aren't many people that are also 10 years of age that attend this academic establishment. There weren't any. Or so I thought until now…No, I would have known if she was here. Despite always denying my mother's accusations of it, I've always had a competitive streak that is rather unsatisfiable and would have known if another child prodigy was present at my own school. My own primal, ill-equipped school…it's a wonder in itself that I've tolerated this place long enough to get my diploma. After this is all over with, I'm shipping off for the University of Texas at Austin as soon as possible.

It is then that I notice that she is wearing a student pass around her neck, the royal blue matching the one I have on now as well. Even though the blank backside is facing outward, blocking me from observing who she really is, it's officially confirmed: for some reason or another, I'm no longer the only 10 year old to attend Llab High.

In an instant, another flicker in her eye snaps me back to the current time and place.

No words are exchanged between us as she calculates my face for a second longer, then silently alights from the counter top. With her feet on the ground, my theory about her true height is confirmed; she is shorter than me but only by approximately five to four inches. She shoots a curt nod my direction a short nod and strides out the door. The large wooden door slowly sweeps shut behind her with a resounding thud and I can't help but note that with her presence gone, the lavatory seems to have experienced a decrease in temperature. It's impossible, I know, but the nagging feeling works on my nerves that are already dangerously short, chiseled down by the days' events. With an indignant huff, I take my own leave, not even taking cautionary steps to avoid another encounter with my antagonists. Casting a quick glance both up and down the long hallway, I find that she is also quick on her feet, even with her short stature.

A deep, uncharacteristic sigh escapes out of my mouth and I move to trudge down towards the exit, no longer able to concentrate on my previous plans because my mind is to wrapped up in this illusive girl that seems to have just appeared out of no where. It doesn't quite reveal how deeply she has put me into a stupor until, within the confines of own home, I finally realize that in my deep thinking, I've left my books all my books laying strewn across the girls' restroom floor.

_**A/N: Well, it seems like Shelly will have a lot on his plate tonight. Both figuratively and physically! I wish I could say the same, at least about the physical part…**_

_**One interesting trivia fact: "Llab High School" is a fiction establishment but when you turn it around it become Ball High School, which is the only high school within Galveston, Texas, where Sheldon Cooper was born and raised.**_

_**Anyway, that's enough jibber-jabber. I NEED to hear what you guys think. This story strike so much hope in my heart. YOU ALL JUST HAVE TO LEAVE A REVIEW! I'M NOT TOO PROUD TO BEG! *gets on knees and grovels*. Oh…and if that isn't enough to persuade you to hit that little button down there and leave some comments, let me just inform you that I know how many people read my story every day; the online traffic is viewable from my account…SO I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE! Have a great night, review, and stay shiny ya'll!**_

_**~CC333**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**WAZZZZUP! It's CC333 back with a whole new chappie, ya'll. Do ya dig? Okay but for real, hey guys. I really hope you all enjoyed the introduction chappie. The feedback was wonderful. Imma start responding to reviews up here, by the way.**_

_**Jislane: Thanks for the enthusiastic review! I grinned the entire time reading it.**_

_**LANIKI: Well, you can put an end to your searching for here it is! Also thank you for the compliment on Sheldon's voice.**_

_**swiftmovesyeah: Thank you :D Yup, don't you just love it? :3**_

_**And to all of you that were slightly pondering reviewing but didn't and are now kicking yourselves in the behind, do not despair! Just respond to this the chappie right here this time around. ;)**_

_**Well, time for that little legal thingy I'm obligated to say.**_

_**The first half of this chappie introduces my OC. Please note that everything before the line break is Sophie's Point Of View.**_

_**Disclaimer: *in show tune voice* I do not own Big Bang Theory! *no applause….crickets* *sigh* I knew I should've stayed with the simpler acts. :(**_

The Lovely Hypothesis

By: CC333

Chapter Two

Sophia's PointOfView

It is the sound of shattering glass that yanks me out of the made-up world of the science fiction selection I cradle in my hands.

My head jerks up from the book and turns towards the sound on instinct. Without looking, I mark my place in the blue hard-back book before closing it softly and picking myself off the yellowing vinyl floor of the kitchen. Walking towards the exit of the dank area, my mind notes the places where it is pealing up from the ground, making it look all the more hideous.

No longer after I am out of the kitchen and into the living room area, another crash is heard. It is unmistakable now that the sounds are being emitted from the bathroom on the right side of the extremely short hallway. I feel my fingers tense as they clutch the book tighter into my grasp and will my legs to advance on. As much as I don't want to face the menace that awaits me there, there is the chance that he could be injured or dead. It is, in a way, my duty to check up on the situation.

Peeking around the corner of the doorframe that leads inside the small bathroom, my eyes sweep the room quickly before I opt to stand fully in the doorway. A wrong decision. Something brown flies by my head, its proximity close enough for me to feel the small breeze left in its wake. It crashes loudly against the wall a meter behind me and it doesn't require me to glance back at it to know that it was a broken beer bottle. There are plenty of them sprawled across the floor in front of me, along with the lax body of a adult man, his eyes closes and his breathing uneven. There's a half-empty bottle of Budweiser in his own large hands.

Crossing my arms in front of my small chest, I give him the best glare I can muster. He looks absolutely pitiful, all crumpled and barely conscious down there. This isn't the first time I've seen him like this, however. Despair here was always a bit different, but this was nothing new. The untrimmed hair on his face is a mess, along with frenzy of black hair lying atop his head. His mouth is set ajar as his blank stare slowly tries to focus on me again. Then his gaze moves back to the alcohol in his own grasps. No, he's not dead or injured. Inebriated, yes. Dead, no.

As much as I try to ignore it, a pang of evil slices through me as I secretly resent this fact.

Shaking my head slightly, I inch a small bit closer to Michael. An odd mumbling noise rises in response. Barely incoherent, he attempts to speak.

"Geh away frum meh"

"Michael," I address my drunk step-dad, " you've consumed more alcoholic drinks than recommended. Please discontinue this behavior."

"Don tell whah the hell to do! Em a grown man!" With this outburst, his uncoordinated hand knocks over the beer and they both watch it in silence as it pours out the glass and onto the floor.

I am the first to break the streaming quietness.

"Michael, I-"

An overwhelming forces me back into the wall behind me. His meaty hand is around my neck and I soon find myself stuck. It's fortunate that I have thick, curly hair, which helps soften the collision and prevents him from causing me a concussion. How could he have gotten off the floor at such a speed? The question is lost within the confines of my brain as my oxygen supply depletes. My hands automatically fly up to claw at his one hand as his other one braces him up from the wall behind me. My logical mind comments meekly that struggling would be ineffective and would only make matters work.

After a deep, albeit raspy, breath, my body goes limp. His beady black eyes narrow when he notices the slack and gives a satisfied grunt before throwing me to the ground. Arms flail to try and catch myself and I hear a strangled squeak that could have only been emitted from my own throat. I land awkwardly on one of my elbows. The searing pain shoots up from my mid-arm, causing the whole limb to tingle. My ears pick up two more things; the air being sucked in through my clenched teeth and the infuriatingly dark chuckles of the man standing above me.

Something snaps within me.

A tribal cry rips through my throat as a leg that can't possibly be mine swings and knocks Michael down, his heavy body landing with an "oof". My rage doesn't stop there. On shaky legs, I scramble back and set myself upright before kicking him in the side, raising another grunt from him. Then I run.

The short hallway gives way to the kitchen once again. Everything seems to be swirling, the room won't stay still. Behind me, my antagonist's evident footsteps are fast approaching. His cursing fills my ears, only powering me to rebel further. It takes me but half a second to locate a viable weapon. Thin hands that can't possibly be mine wrap around the hand of the old frying pan that sports burn marks on the bottom. His footsteps are close, he is here.

With closed eyes and another gut-wrenching scream, the hands bring up the pan and it is swung as hard as possible towards the footsteps.

And all at once… everything falls silent, except for the decrescendo _bbbrriinnggg_ of the pan. It is only after I hear the thump of a body hitting old vinyl flooring do I dare peek at the results.

On the floor, he looks out for the count. The pan slips from my loose grasp and clatters loudly on the group. There is the slightest trickle of blood sliding down from the side of his head. I drop down to my knees to knees to access the damage. His chest is still rising and falling and this time the pattern regulates. No, not dead.

My body straightens out once again and I find myself staring at the pan now lying still upon the floor. What now?

* * *

><p>Mother angrily drops the aquamarine blue pot full of potatoes and water onto the stove before shoving a large, dark pan into the sink with an indignant huff. I watch her curiously from the wooden dining table that sits in the center of the room. All of her huffing and puffing has made completing my notes on proton accelerators impossible. I could just go into my room…but I always do my free-lance work within the kitchen, on the second chair closest to the archway. It is the only place within the house with acceptable conditions for doing just so. Well, on most occasions it is, but now the peaceful and calm aura is being disrupted. My eyes clip my mother while she angrily scrubs the pan in the sink, applying much more pressure than needed.<p>

Before I can open my mouth to ask where this aggravation is originating from, my twin-sister (who is drawing menial doodles on a piece of scrap paper) glares at me. Now, I'm still working on this whole "body language" basis of communication, but I actually get this one. With a raised eyebrow, I send Missy what I hope to be a successful look of questioning. She responds with a eye roll before motioning for me to follow her out the room. Throwing my head back the neat stacks of work papers on the table then at the angry female who has moved on to whisk some concoction up in a glass bowl rather rapid speed, doubts fill my mind, but I consent. She slides out of her own kitchen chair before padding off out of the room and into the open family room across the hall. I follow suite, easing out of my own chair before striding behind her, hands stationed still at my sides. My head cocks to the side when I observe her plop onto the green and brown plaid couch, blonde hair mother tries hard to keep orderly flying in every which way. Missy looks more indifferent than usual (if that is even possible) as she feels around something within the couch cushions. I cringe at the sight; the idea plunging my own hands into a dark, unsanitary abyss was disturbing.

"Dang, Shelly. I promise, you hafta be the most clueless boy eva!"

A scowl covers my face as I detect the statement as an insult and decisively choose not to respond. Well, at least it's not physical abuse, something my twin tends to inflict upon me. She halts her blind left hand searching with the depths of couch. She appears to be in a deep state of thought as I note the look upon her face. It's one she doesn't put on very often, obviously…

She twists her neck at an odd angle to see me as she begins speak again.

"Mommy's mad cause' George Sr. isn't 'round here for Valentine's Day", she worded carefully.

Valentine's day? I'm familiar with that holiday. Pink hearts, frilly cards, and the exchanging of saliva via osculation. All three of which I never receive and care nothing for, thus dubbing the whole occasion useless. Why do people even try to deal with the opposite sex's hormones voluntarily? No wonder society is ran beginning to be ran over by the internet and Burger King commercials.

"My mom is intelligent enough to not become to preoccupied with her emotions concerning something as insignificant as _Valentine's Day._" The last two words were spat out with an underlying chuckle, highlighting my disbelief on my sister's statement. This raises the girl on the couch to roll her eyes.

A loud bang shoots out from the kitchen, causing both my sister and I to turn in the direction. A frustrated groan from Mother follows it up, cutting through the din of running water and sizzling dishes, and I can practically feel the sadistic smirk my sister has pointing at the back of my head. Without turning back around to meet it, I evaluate the information that has been given to me.

Another bang from the direction and I can almost promise I hear her curse softly with that Southern drawl of hers.

Perhaps.

My eyes shift back to Missy, who is still lying across one of the family room's and (more importantly) land on the crumpled photo she is lazily holding up. From my position meters away, I gather that the photo is depicting Mother and George Sr, holding each other in tight embrace as they both sport huge, bright smiles, despite the bitter cold that seems to be nipping at them. Both the adults seem to wrapped up in coats, scarves, and with each other even to not need to care too much about the weather. I find myself inching towards it.

Missy stuffs it back into the couch without another word.

"So yeah. There ya go."

If that was supposed to serve as some sort of closure, my sister has worst social skills than I thought…and that's coming from me. However, in my defense, the fact that I am so estranged from others is because of their inferiority.

When I don't move away immediately, she throws in a fair, "Don't you have somewhere to be all weird at?"

M mouth opens and I inhale to respond but instantly cut myself off. A smart comment about her failing science grades is poised at the tip of my tongue but I can't bring myself to say it. I've lost interest for trivial banter for now and even worse, for protons and the synthetic combining of periodical elements.

With a silly pout, I exit the family room and trudge up to my room. Maybe I can toy around with train set Father has sent to me from his business leave five states away.

_**Oh wow, this is almost angsty! D: Hmm, I myself, didn't even like the fact that there was no interaction between the two wonder children, but I needed no get some background on our mystery gal…who still has no name… Oh and trust me, I've been putting A LOT of thought into this one, but I still want to hear what you guys think. Sooooo, if you want to suggest a name based of what you heard about my OC so far, pretty please private message me (also, please include why and if the name means anything).**_

_**Thanks a bunch and please review (don't forget, Imma be responding to them)! :D**_

_**Till then, stay shiny guys. ;)**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Aw, I'm so sorry guys. It's been WAY too long since the last update and this probably should have been up much earlier. I guess I've been sick…with a severe case of laziness and procrastination! I'm a bit put off…only one person reviewed on chappie two. Before we get started, though, let's get some review responses (well, review response) up, yeah? ;)**_

_**Jislane: THANK YOU! I just want to set it straight that the first half of Chappie Two isn't from Shelly's P.O.V (it's my OC's) but I do agree, there is some things wrong with both their households.**_

_**Note: As mentioned above, the first half of the previous chappie (before the line break) is narrated by someone whom you all will be meeting…dangerously soon.**_

_**I finally found a name for her, as seen below. It was a very close time between that and Astra.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do NOT own BBT…but I wish I owned Jim Parsons…jk :3**_

_**The Lovely Hypothesis**_

_**By: CC333**_

_**Chapter Three**_

_***Sophia's Point of View***_

"WOULD YOU JUST CALM DOWN LONG ENOUGH SO I CAN HEAR MYSELF THINK?"

God, she's infuriating. At least what's happening now isn't nearly as bad as the time when I accidentally set her hair on fire. What? It wasn't like it was on purpose or anything. I always keep an emergency fire extinguisher in my laboratory anyway. Plus, I had been in the fifth grade and experimenting chemical reaction when losing or gaining a set of electr-

"AHH!"

Oh great. Now she's screaming and leaping. That's only going to scare Rufus even more.

My point is that just because I love completing research and acting upon my findings doesn't mean that I'm "special".

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS THING! GET IT OFF ME! YOU'RE FREAKING CRAZY!"

Okay, so I have heard that one before. Many a time before, really. In a way, it kind of fits. My whole life's been crazy. Insane. Ridiculous.

Oh my gosh, is Lyric really crying?

Low and behold, my older step-sister is propped on her elbows while the rest of her body is sprawled out across the floor. Big fat tears roll down her face as her screams dwindle down to whimpers thanks to my pet octopus Rufus, who continues to make the sweet innocent gurgling sounds from his position strapped tightly to Lyric's chest.

"Well, I'm glad you found it in you to calm down", I say while standing over he and trying to convey a stern emotion. I'm not the best at appearing domineering. My short stature isn't threatening. I've never really been petite and definitely not right now. I'm 15 but feel like I have plenty tummy flab and thick thighs. What? It's not my fault I can't do 10 sit-ups in a row if my life counted on it…well, from a logical point of view, yes, it's my fault.

"Just. Get. It. Off. Me"

Rufus is a completely misunderstood cephalopod. Just because he suffers from a mild case of mammaphilia, doesn't mean he's a bad guy. His attraction to female breasts doesn't really spark my interest. Octopi are, after all, known to abnormal fetishes and Rufus is no different. He's completely harmless, especially to a 'not-so-gifted' girl such as myself. There indeed was a time where I did choose to sate my boredom one Saturday afternoon by printing off a picture of some super model's own pair as they were displayed through the strands of cloth the magazine article below it dared called a dress. My boy crawled on the tips of his tentacles right to the side of tank when I held up the photo and held onto the glass for dear life.

I'm not particularly worried about Lyric. It just so happens that when he spots a pair, he'll just latch right on.

Boy, was it uncomfortable when I had a good, long talk with Rachel, my step-mother, after she found a wet boob shot just lying on my bedroom table. I had spent a good two hours trying to convince her that I was completely heterosexual and that I definitely did not need to come of the metaphorical "closet" to her. But that was then, and now Rufus is latched onto my step-sister's chest. Well, at least his sexuality isn't in question.

If anything, this whole fiasco was set in motion by my stepsister, not my pet. This is the second infraction on which I have discovered Lyric's presence in my research lab. What I want to know is how she manages to bypass the two locks that are installed on the door. For someone that doesn't exactly convey themselves as intelligent, my step-sister has techniques that out-master mine when it comes to completing tasks that aren't, well, lawful. Perhaps these skills of hers are both a pro and con. After all, they have gotten her into the current mess, complete with a groping, purring octopus.

"Alright, just stay still. And try and relax, you've probably terrified him with all your incessant screaming," I respond while stepping over to bend over and gently try and coax the octopus from Lyric's torso. However, he isn't budging. I pull harder, trying not to squeeze him enough to hurt. It's understandable that he may be in shock, but if he doesn't let go, he'll suffocate due to being out of the water longer than he can handle.

After realizing that my (rather expensive) octopus will die if I don't do something soon, I yank harder. All this does is elicit a tighter grip on Rufus's part and more screaming from Lyric's. To preserve Rufus, I'll have to execute sort of Plan B. My hands reach down and grab the older girl by the forearms and I grunt as I strain to pull her to her feet. Then, taking her hand, I lead out the still-open vault door of my lab and quickly up the basement stairs, silently recognizing the feel of cold concrete under my bare feet, the feeling very much unlike the warm electro-heated tiles of my laboratory.  
>Once we reach the top of the steps, through the kitchen we hustle and into the close-by bathroom, Rufus gurgling the all the way.<p>

"Quick! Lean over the sink while I fill it up."

She stares at me with an incredulous look in her eyes. "What!" she then manages to spit out.

"Just do it already!"

Surprisingly, that's all takes for her to comply. I, too, rush forward and begin turn the knobs that control the flow and temperature of the sink water, quickly calculating the correct condition for a maturing octopus like Rufus.

"I feel ridiculous", are the words that meet my ears as I work quickly. My head turns to see that, indeed, she looks like an absolute oaf, leaning chest first into a bathroom sink. Oh well, she is one so it's only fitting.

"You should also be feeling the release of my pet's grip."

There's a short silence before she answers, "Yeah, I think he's letting go."

I grunt softly in reply. Talking in excess was never really a part of nature. My etiquette with words was less than exceptional but it's not on my current self-improvement list, so it's not a priority. Not that there are a lot of people I feel comfortable talking to anyway.

It's not long before Lyric is back to standing erect and octopus-less. The front of her seemingly new shirt is soaked, but at least my plan to calm Rufus down by getting back into the water is successful. He's is the sink now, his form taking up most of the space as he sits barely submerged below the surface. I can swear up and down that he's grinning his little octopus grin at us both right now, happy to cause some form of up-stir.

My older "sister" looks from the sink to me. Five times over. Then she finally speaks, her voice bit gravelly, probably from all the blood-curling screams that ripped through her throat earlier.

"Why can't you just be normal?"

This is most definitely not the first time I heard those words from before as well but it's the way Lyric delivers them, accompanied with a deathly glare and all, that hits hard. So hard in fact that I find myself taking a step back from her.

"I was just trying to help". My voice sounds pitiful now, like some sorry little insect. So much for being domineering.

"My life can never be peaceful with you around!" she continues, shoving past my own comment. "It's like this never ending typhoon that I've dealt with for four years! I'm so glad I'm finally moving into my new apartment; it gives me a chance to get away from you."

This time around, I stand my ground. Lyric stumps out the bathroom like a little brat, not like that's new. Anger is bubbling inside of me and, knowing me, my control over it won't last long. It's alright though, because it's already apparent that she is preparing herself to leave anyway, her (oversized) hot pink purse and (agonizingly annoying) little Shih Tzu tucked beneath her arms and walks past the bathroom door. Five seconds later I hear the door slam and the whole foyer rumble with the unsettling movement.

The house remains quiet after that. Rachel is out running errands like usual. She's been abnormally busy these last few days and I'm beginning to wonder what is going on. Maybe it has something to do with Lyric and her plans to leave the household to live on her university's campus.

It's alright; I conduct my work best in silence.

Before I can move out of the bathroom and back downstairs to by laboratory, the door bell of our house chimes happily. Usually I'm very uneasy about people approaching the steps to our door. After all, you never know who can be on the side: a mass murder, a pesky salesman, a girl scout trying pawn money from your wallet in exchange for a fattening dessert.

However, with the recent berating I've just endured, I throw my caution to proverbial wind.

I wish I hadn't, though. After yanking open the white door and seeing who was standing there, I realize that it worse than all three of those things.

My body won't move. I can't move. I'm dead.


End file.
